To F--

Beloved! amid the earnest woes

That crowd around my earthly path--

(Drear path, alas! where grows

Not even one lonely rose)--

My soul at least a solace hath

In dreams of thee, and therein knows

An Eden of bland repose.

And thus thy memory is to me

Like some enchanted far-off isle

In some tumultuous sea--

Some ocean throbbing far and free

With storm--but where meanwhile

Serenest skies continually

Just o'er that one bright inland smile.